THE ESCAPE.
It was lonesome and dark. An impressive, significant stillness hung over
all Nature. The night animals and birds, which ordinarily filled the bush
with noises, seemed to have retired to their lairs and nests. No morepoke
called, and no scrub-wallaby hopped through the undergrowth.
After each lightning flash a shudder ran through the forest, the branches
murmured softly, and the leaves sighed.
Tom thought the matter over, and calculated.
“It’ll take them an hour and-a-half,” he said, “to get down where they
want to go. They won’t be more than half-an-hour breakin’ into the bank
and openin’ the safe. Then they’ll come up with the tide in an hour.
They’ll be in a bigger hurry to get away than they were to go down. That
will fetch ’em home some time before twelve o’clock. Je-rusalem!”
“I say,” asked Dave, as the storm began to abate, “do you believe in
ghosts?”
“I dunno,” said Tom, peering round the barn; “did you see anything?”
“No,” replied Dave, looking round also; “did you?”
“No; I thought you did. I’ve heard a good deal about ghosts, though.
There used to be a ghost of a woman up at Mackenzie’s Crossing. She
used to stand just by the fence goin’ down to the punt. I heard the old
man and Jock Mackenzie talking about it. Lots o’ people seen her. Jock
Mackenzie he seen her ’imself one night comin’ home from the pub, an’ he
swore off the liquor, an’ never teched a drop; an’ twelve months to the
day he seen the woman’s ghost he died.”
Dave shuddered.
“That woman must a’ been murdered,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Tom, “I never heard of a ghost that hadn’t been murdered.
They never ketched the man that did it yet, but he will be ketched,
because murder’s got to come out.”
“I say,” queried Dave, presently, “suppose these coves that’s goin’ down
the river to-night murders somebody?”
“Well, suppose they do?” repeated Tom.
“It ’ud be awful wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Tom, “it would; but it ’ud be a throw-in for us.”
“I don’t see how it would.”
“No, you don’t, because you got no sense, but I do. I reckon there’d be a
big reward, and we’d git the money.”
“But,” asked Dave, after consideration, “they might say we oughter gone
an’ told about it when we heard ’em plannin’ to do it.”
“Who’s to know we ’eard ’em plannin’?” asked Tom. “Look ’ere, Dave
Gibson, it strikes me you better leave things to me, an’ keep your mouth
shut, or you’ll put the whole game away. You know as much about this
detective an’ pirate business as a dog knows about Sunday.”
“Well,” retorted Dave, “I ain’t frightened, or I wouldn’t be ’ere.”
“No,” replied Tom, magnanimously. “I give you credit for what you
deserve, but an ounce o’ discretion’s worth a pound o’ taller, as I heard
the old schoolmaster say, an’ you got no discretion to speak of.”
“Anyhow,” replied Dave, in self-defence, “you’re older than me twelve
months; but I ain’t funked any more than you ’ave.”
“Ain’t I givin’ you credit for it?” said Tom. “I say, the storm’s
breakin.’ It’s gettin’ quite bright out under.”
The rain fell less heavily, the thunder was not so loud and frequent.
Gradually the heavy pall of black cloud lifted, and the stars shone out
brightly beneath.
As soon as it cleared up and the drip was finished, the lads shinned down
the pole, and went back and hid in the lantana again.
Tom said they’d go watches. Dave could have first watch.
It might have been near midnight when Dave woke out of a doze to hear the
sound of oars coming up stream.
He put his hand over Tom’s mouth and pinched him.
Tom let out a muffled roar.
He had been fast asleep and dreaming.
“Hist!” exclaimed Dave. “They’re comin’.”
“I wasn’t frightened,” whispered Tom, in explanation, “but I thought you
was the devil. Yes, that’s them. They’re close in too.”
The boat came in quietly.
The men landed. One of them struck a match and lit a lantern. The light
flickered round the bushes, and Tom and Dave by a spontaneous impulse
tried to make themselves invisible.
“Give us the lantern. Frenchy,” said the man who was holding the match,
“and let us have a look at the spoil.”
The other man lifted a heavy bag out of the boat.
“Sovereigns!” cried the first speaker; “must be four or five hundred of
’em.”
Tom’s heart thumped against his ribs.
“Vere shall ve cache our riches?” asked the foreigner. “Eet ees not for
long, but ve must get ze place of safety. _Oui._”
“That’s so,” replied the other. “Along the bank in the scrub ’ere’s as
good as anywhere. We don’t want to go too far in. We’ll leave the boat
just as we found her.”
They stumbled along the edge.
The foreigner carried the bag, and the other man went ahead with the
lantern.
“It ain’t good to hang round any longer than we can help,” he said,
presently. “Somebody might see the light. There’s a myrtle with a hollow
butt about here somewhere. Let’s see! Yes, here it is. This is good
enough for now.”
“_Oui_, zat vill do,” agreed the Frenchman.
Tom and Dave, looking through the bushes, saw two shadowy figures
apparently scraping at the foot of a tree!
“They’re hidin’ the money there,” whispered Tom in Dave’s ear.
He could hardly speak for excitement.
Dave was trembling like a top-heavy jelly in the hands of a hurrying
waiter.
“What will we do if they see us?” he asked.
“Run,” replied Tom. “Them coves wouldn’t think twice about cuttin’ our
throats. The German cove’s got a knife in ’is belt. Keep quiet!”
The admonition was unnecessary. Dave was devoting all his energies to
keeping quiet. His whole soul was in it.
The robbers took some time to hide their booty. Tom and Dave could see
that the foreigner was holding the lantern against the trunk of the tree,
shading it with his body on one side and concentrating the light as much
as possible on his companion, who knelt down, and was carefully covering
the bag over with loose soil and leaves.
The faces of both men were towards them.
Suddenly they saw the Frenchman, acting, perhaps, on some swift murderous
impulse, draw his knife and plunge it to the hilt in his accomplice’s
back!
The latter, uttering a choking cry, fell forward. The light went out. The
bush was in darkness. The boys clung to each other in a convulsion of
fear and horror!
[Illustration: The Murder.
_Tom Pagdin, Pirate._
_Page 56._]
A murder had been committed right before their eyes! A human being had
been stricken down, knifed, killed, almost at their feet.
Either boy felt that he could have screamed aloud, but the icy hand of
fear was on the heart of each.
They dared not utter a word, but held one another, trembling,
palpitating, sick with dread.
Then they heard other sounds. A groan, as if a dying man in agony, a
muffled voice—which Tom described after as if someone had thrust a knife
into cold meat—the noise of somebody dragging a heavy body along the
ground, and then an ominous splash in the water, which sent their blood
cold.
After this came an interval seemingly centuries in length. The murderer
was groping for the lantern. He found and lit it, and holding it close to
the ground, began scraping over the loose soil about the tree with his
foot hurriedly—as Tom told Dave afterwards to cover up the blood.
Something, a wild animal, stirred in the bush. The assassin blew out the
light again quickly. The stillness which followed was almost beyond their
endurance.
They were impulsed to get up and run for their lives, but their fears
held them chained, glued to the spot.
Having waited long enough to assure himself that there was nobody about,
the murderer crept to the water’s edge. They could hear him softly
washing his hands, and then at last he sneaked away in the thick darkness.
The younger boy, overwrought and almost crazed with fear, commenced
sobbing bitterly.
Tom held him in his arms and tried to soothe him in hollow whispers.
His own voice was broken and hysterical.
“Let us go home and tell them,” sobbed Dave. “I wish I hadn’t come. Oh! I
wish I hadn’t ever gone piratin’, I do! It’s awful!”
Tom thought a while.
“No,” he muttered. “We better not do that; not yet.”
“Why?” asked Dave. “Why not? I will if you don’t!”
“You’d better not,” said Tom.
“I will!” protested Dave. “I will!”
“If we do,” said Tom, grimly, “that cove will kill us both. Besides we
mightn’t be believed. An’ besides they might say we did it ourselves.”
“Us?” said Dave, a new horror overtaking him.
“Yes,” replied Tom; “an’ it’s ten to one we’d both get ’ung.”
“But we never did it,” cried Dave.
“No,” responded Tom; “but there’s many an innocent cove gets ’ung.”
“What’ll we do?” sobbed Dave. “It’s too horrible for anything. What will
we do?”
“I dunno,” replied Tom, in a shaky voice. “I never reckoned on anything
like this. I wouldn’t a’ come either if I had. I’d rather be larruped!”
“So would I,” moaned Dave, “I’d rather be whaled every day an’ twice on
Sunday all me life. I would.”
“Lemme think a minute,” said Tom. “I’m all froze.”
“I’m sick and froze,” groaned Dave.
“So’m I. I saw the knife. Did you?”
“Yes,” sobbed Dave. “I saw him draw it out an’ stick it into ’im.”
“Yes,” shuddered Tom, “an’ I saw him fall on his face.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Dave. “Did you ’ear ’im?”
“Don’t!” said Tom, “I can ’ear ’im now. Hist! what’s that?”
Dave lay still and shivering.
He was too terrified to speak.
“It’s only a paddymelon,” remarked Tom, presently.
“Do you think he’s gone?” whispered Dave.
“Yes,” replied Tom. “I heard him go. He wouldn’t stay round after doin’ a
thing like that.”
“Do you think the other cove’s dead?”
“Yes,” replied Tom. “He must be. He killed him first and drowned him
afterwards.”
“Good Gawd!” said Dave.
“Look ’ere,” observed the elder lad, after a pause. “The best thing we
kin do is to get in the boat and pull down the river an’ get our swags,
an’ go an’ hide for a while, anyhow.”
“But,” argued Dave, ruefully, “if we’re ketched we might get ’ung just
the same.”
“We musn’t get ketched,” said Tom, sententiously.
“It’s this way,” he went on, after further consideration. “Murder will
out. That German must be found out sooner or later. Suppose you an’ me
went up an’ told on ’im now. He might a’ got away before we told. Or
even if ’e didn’t, ’e might be arrested an’ break out of gaol. Then
he’d lay for us sure. He’d know he wuz goin’ to get ’ung any’ow, an’ it
wouldn’t matter to ’im killin’ a couple more. He wouldn’t think twice
about stickin’ ’is knife into you and me. He’d lay for you when you were
roundin’ up the cows one night and out your throat—like a bull calf——”
“Don’t!” interrupted Dave, “Don’t!”
“Well, ’e would,” persisted Tom. “An’ he’d cut mine too. I don’t want to
be round with my throat cut, Dave Gibson, if you do.”
“I don’t,” protested Dave, “I don’t.”
“Vary well,” continued Tom. “The only thing to do is to go down the river
and ’ide till we see what turns up. Let us go an’ get the boat.”
Tom stood up shakily, and Dave trembling in every limb, followed suit.
They crawled rather than walked to the edge of the creek. Tom drew the
boat up to the log as noiselessly as possible and helped his mate in.
Poor Dave was likely to faint at any moment.
“I wish I never came piratin’,” he sobbed.
“Piratin’s right enough,” muttered Tom, sticking an oar in the mud and
pushing out, “but these Germans is ruinin’ the country. I’ve heard the
old man say that often when he wuz talkin’ politics on the punt, but I
never see the meanin’ of it afore—not the true meanin’.”
They slipped out into the middle of the stream and breathed a trifle
easier.
The sky was clear, and white with stars. They could hardly realize what
had happened. It seemed like a dream—a horrible nightmare, or some
tragedy that had been played on the stage.
The boys pulled hard until they got abreast of the island. Each stroke
which took them further away from the scene of that sudden horror lifted
a weight off their minds.
It was almost daylight when they got there. But a thick fog came up with
the dawn, and hidden under its friendly canopy they rowed round until
they struck a little reedy bay, where they could not be seen from the
opposite bank or noticed by chance steamers. Tired out, they ran in here,
and, getting their tent unrolled, spread it over them in the boat, and
stretching themselves out on the bottom, with a seat for a pillow, fell
fast asleep.